


Strongholds

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Series: The Thranduil Collection [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-04 00:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: The Elven King and Legolas are tangled in a web of misunderstanding when they attempt to reforge their relationship. When tragedy strikes, it seems father and son may have left it too late.Now complete."Thranduil’s fae fluttered, seeming to lift a little from its customary seat within his physical form. He sensed it clearly; an injured, grey, exhausted part of himself. It would be the easiest of things to let go and drift away with it."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Introduction -   
> Set between the Battle of the Five Armies and the The Fellowship of the Ring. Movie canon by virtue of Legolas’s role in the Battle of the Five Armies and in the appearance of Legolas and Thranduil, although as much reference as possible to information in the original works has been included. 
> 
> After the battle at the Lonely Mountain, Legolas and his father, Thranduil, part on uncertain terms. The Elven King’s eyes have been opened to the damage caused by his own cold isolation, but too late to prevent the departure of his son. Legolas strikes out on his own, acknowledging his father’s farewell, but too angry to return to Mirkwood.
> 
> Many years later, when the Fellowship of the Ring is formed in Rivendell, Legolas is present as a messenger of his father. Clearly at some point he has returned to Mirkwood and resumed, at the least, a working relationship with the Elven King. This tale explores one way in which their relationship and trust could be rekindled.

 

**~**~ Chapter 1 ~**~**

The Elven King’s son returned to the Halls of his father as the last of the beech nuts turned brown and cracked open to release its bounty for the creatures of the forest. He came on horseback, on a fine grey mare whose lines were inherited from a herd far from Mirkwood. He came with a jaw firm with defiance, clad in travelling clothes of brown and green and armed in the manner of a warrior.

He never did say how he came by the mare, although she seemed to find pleasure in his company, as most animals do with elven kind. She sidestepped with feisty and delicate paces into the stable yard with the white mist of an autumn evening creeping in behind her. At the stable doors, Legolas bade farewell to the two elves of his father’s guard who had accompanied him since he met with a patrol on the edges of the realm.

“Remember,” he told them in a grave voice. “No word to my father. I wish to…surprise him.”

The elves bowed their heads in acquiescence and departed to re-join their patrol. If they wondered at the reluctance to warn Thranduil, they gave no indication of it, knowing their station and having no wish to offend either of the high ranking elves.

“Ai.” Legolas sighed, taking much needed reassurance from the warm neck beneath his hand. He patted the silky mane absently and the horse twisted her head, turning a knowing eye in his direction. There was no delaying it any longer; he’d been gone for several years and in all that time there had been no communication between himself and his father. It was return now, or perhaps never return at all.

“Wish me luck, mellon-nin,” he said, his light tone deceptive of his feelings. He slipped to the ground; first he would see to the comfort of the mare.

~**~

Thranduil needed no warning of his son’s return. He had been aware of Legolas’s presence long before he met with the patrol. No word had been sent ahead, and by this he deduced that Legolas was unsure of his welcome, was perhaps still angry. Thus the Elven King remained within his Halls, performing the duties of ruling a kingdom with his haughty façade firmly in place. He would give his son time to approach of his own accord. Time was something of which he had seen much, aeons, stretching back as far as he could remember. A little more time in the life of an immortal should be of small import. But it is a fact that the passage of some hours weigh more heavily than others, and Thranduil, every nerve alive with the knowledge that his child was nearby, found the hours of this final waiting bowed his shoulders with their immensity. An insidious fear crept into his heart; perhaps his son would turn around and leave without ever reaching the Halls. What would he do then? Cast aside his duties and dignity alike and chase after him? He could not be certain that he would not.

As no king of any worth can be seen with bowed shoulders, Thranduil hid his anxiety beneath an icy exterior, straightened his posture and swept his cloak behind him in a regal manner as he stalked about his business.

It was so that Legolas found him, a parchment in one hand and the priceless gems on the other splitting candlelight into brilliant shards as he gestured. His back was partially turned to Legolas, but his son knew his father was aware of his presence. There was a momentary stillness about the golden head, some unseen change to his expression that made the elf he was addressing look away in deference.

“You may go.”

Calm, precise, the deep tones just loud enough to hold absolute authority, never as loud so as to appear vulgar. The elf bowed and retreated at speed.

Legolas sucked in his breath, cursing his own nervousness, and drew up to his full height. It was not enough; his father was several inches taller than him, the height advantage adding to the factors that always made him feel like an errant child in the Elven King’s presence.

“Legolas.”

Thranduil turned slowly, his ice-blue gaze fixing on his son’s face, penetrating, almost…hungry? Legolas swallowed, feeling as though a rough piece of wood had lodged itself in his throat.

“Lord King,” he offered, grateful that there was no shake in his voice.

“You have returned.”

Thranduil moved with controlled grace towards him. It was a statement of the obvious; the Elven King was not given to statements of the obvious. He was playing for time, Legolas realised. It made him feel calmer, more secure in his position as the pieces were moved in this stately game.

“That appears to be correct.” His dry delivery and the sarcastic quirk of his eyebrow brought an unexpected tinge to his father’s face.

Thranduil circled him slowly, head tilted as he eyed him up and down. It was unnerving but Legolas ground his teeth and bore it.

“You are well?”

The soft question was equally unexpected. Legolas eyed him in confusion.

“I am well. The kingdom?”

“Is as well as can be expected. The spider nests grow ever more troublesome. There are dark creatures afoot.” The Elven King gestured. “Come. There is food and wine in my quarters.”

“I have eaten.” It was a last attempt at independence, swept away by a haughty eyebrow.

“You have not eaten what _I_ can provide.”

And with that his father was striding away, forcing Legolas to choose between following him and staying like a recalcitrant child. It was true that nothing could match the purity of the honey on the King’s table; the memory of its flowery sweetness brought a rush of saliva to the younger elf’s mouth. He blew out a quick breath of frustration and hurried after the Elven King, lengthening his stride to match the longer legs of his parent, careful not to step on what he considered to be the over-indulgent length of Thranduil’s cloak.

~**~

It was not the most auspicious of new beginnings, but it served well enough. Father and son resumed the somewhat distant relationship they had practised for several centuries. The elves of Mirkwood, having held their collective breath, began to relax. Things were as they had always been.

Except they were not.

Legolas had changed in subtle ways; his years apart from his father’s influence bringing greater maturity, more wisdom.

In turn, Thranduil had made changes of his own. The events of the battle at the Lonely Mountain caused a fissure in the icy shell with which he’d surrounded his inner self after the death of his wife, a shell that at one time had been porous enough to allow the early years of fatherly interaction with his young elfling, but a shell that had become increasingly cold and brittle until even his son had felt himself excluded. That fissure had, over the years since the battle, gradually widened and deepened, causing subtle changes in the Elven King’s interaction with those in his kingdom and the outside world.

To Thranduil, the changes in his son were immediately obvious. Legolas resumed his duties without protest, was less likely to be drawn away by the thrall of the trees when such duty called, and was altogether more reliable; his advice and opinions were reassuringly sound and well considered. He was maturing into the elf that his father had always hoped he would be.

To Legolas, his father seemed outwardly the same, and yet there were tales of aid to Lake Town, of communication, albeit guarded, between man and elf and even dwarf and elf. An ancient elf in the kitchens once told him that the King had sorely missed his son, and that his fae had dimmed a little with each year that had passed. Legolas found it unlikely that Thranduil’s guarded exterior would allow such a thing to be seen, even if it were true, but still he watched his father carefully, noting the small changes in his policies, noting more the way the Elven King trod carefully around their relationship.

It is possible that this situation may have continued indefinitely. In truth, the more time that passed the less the opportunity arose to set things right between them, and each reverted to the strongholds of mistaken belief held close in their hearts.

Sometimes Legolas wondered in despair why he had ever returned home. His father may seem to have softened a little in his attitude towards the elves in Mirkwood and the mortals that surrounded it, but to Legolas he was as unreachable as ever. Physically present, as he had been for the majority of the younger elf’s life, a cold and beautiful being clad in fine cloth and intricate patterns, but emotionally closed to his son’s tentative attempts to establish a connection.

Many times Legolas considered packing the few possessions he treasured and leaving. Each time the thing that stopped him was the memory of his father’s farewell after the battle of the Lonely Mountain. Through the dark nights of long years on the road, Legolas had replayed those treasured words about his mother, saw again the pain etched into his father’s face, a shine that may even have been tears in his eyes as he gave the heartfelt gesture of farewell. It was, after all, why Legolas had come home, because in hindsight it seemed that back then there had, for a moment, been every reason to stay, but he was too angry to see it at the time. So he’d come home, to see if that moment of emotion, of affection, had been real.

It appeared it was not. His hope began to fade with each passing day, his heart playing its steady drumbeat of life and every beat bringing nearer the day of his departure.

Thranduil, equally desperate to re-forge the bond, took the greatest of care over every word, every gesture, not wishing to offend or alienate his son. Too much care, so that his languid calm was seen as being lack of interest. He knew it, could see it in the disappointment on Legolas’ face, and knew of no way to put it right.

Always destined to rule Eryn Galen, as Mirkwood was then known, the young Thranduil had few close relationships. When his father, Oropher, was killed in front of him in the War of the Last Alliance, a part of Thranduil froze and remained frozen. Even his wife, who he loved beyond all reason, thawed it only a little. Her loss cast his soul into darkness. He would surely have died, heart-broken, if it had not been for their little elfling. The tiny elf was devastated at the loss of his Nana, to lose his father too would be cruel beyond all imaginings. So Thranduil hung onto life and endured, for the love of his son. His little Greenleaf grew and he had a mischievous way about him, a life force so strong it could not be ignored. It broke through the miasma of desolation surrounding his father’s fae, gave him the strength to be a loving father. But in time, as Legolas matured into a youth, Thranduil’s fear of losing him, of suffering that same devastating hurt again, caused him to use that same strength of purpose to manufacture an emotional armour stronger than mithril. Everything outside it, even his own son, was excluded, presented only with the ice-cold exterior and chilling decisions for which the Elven King became known throughout Middle Earth.

Now the Elven King, his heart re-awakened at the Lonely Mountain, could see his son slipping away from him, for ever. His fae shuddered in torment, but he had no idea what to do, what to say. The pain of Legolas’s departure would be unbearable. In anticipation Thranduil withdrew behind barriers of his own making, every glance and every motion making him appear more remote.

The months slipped by and the King and his son moved through the trees of Mirkwood and the splendid caverns of the Halls in an elaborate dance of mis-direction, hidden feelings and confusion. But fate doesn’t care about the feelings of one or two individuals; it has its own agenda that affects all, mortal and immortal alike.

~**~

So it was that some ten months after Legolas’s return that fate, or evil luck or perhaps just the whim of a passing breeze, caused a horde of orc and goblin to enter the fringes of Mirkwood.

The horde was of a considerable size, not an army by any means, but still the largest group to be recorded since the Battle of the Five Armies. They attacked the trees with savage delight, slaying any creature that came before them. The spiders, encouraged in their darkness by the presence of the marauders, went on a rampage, expanding their territories more in the space of a few days than in the preceding twenty years.

Every available warrior within a reasonable distance took up arms and went to battle, with the Elven King and his son heading the two columns.

Continued in chapter 2.


	2. Chapter 2

**~**~**

On the morning of the second day of travel the elves found themselves on the bare head of a rounded hill. Elven eyes widened with horror at the sight before them. Where only days earlier there had been verdant forest and trees laden with the fruits of late summer, now all that remained were rotting remains. Shattered tree trunks and the bloated carcasses of deer and birds told a tale of wanton destruction, and of slaughter to the extent that even orc bellies were overfull.

“This is a great evil,” said Legolas, his eyes wide and dark with his distress as he turned to his father.

Thranduil moved his horse nearer to that of his son, his distaste at the sight before him etched on his features. Behind them the ranks of elven warriors waited, taking in mere sips of air to avoid the stench of orc and decay. 

For a long moment the Elven King stared down from the hillside. He exuded power, sitting still and straight as a carven image, his black armour so highly polished that it appeared almost silver when it caught the light. His was the icy strength found in the savagery of the winter storm, and in the ageless and mighty glaciers that carved the highest mountains. His twin swords, sharp as the edge of the finest cut diamond, seemed almost to shiver with it as they caught and threw back the rays of the sun.

Beside him, Legolas resonated with a power of his own, that of vibrant, exhilarating youth. His was the strength in the soar of the eagle, the flex of the strongest, most supple bough, the headlong rush of the melt-water river. It rippled in the scales of his armour and in the fine green cloth of his tunic.

If any passing stranger had seen them, they would have appeared as remote from each other as fire and ice, and yet at the same time it was unmistakable that they were family, the tilt of their golden heads alike as they sat their horses, knee almost touching knee in an unconscious invasion of personal space. 

“Give no mercy.”

The Elven King turned his ice-blue gaze upon his son; it held him, intent, as though Thranduil wished to say something more. Legolas waited, hope hardening into bitterness on his features as his father turned away, leaving the younger elf with only the view of a stern profile.

“Have a care, Legolas.”

He was gone in a thunder of hooves, black cloak and pale hair flying like a flag over the bright flash of his armour as he led his column into battle.

With no time to reply or to wonder about the words that were so nearly spoken, Legolas gave a great shout and swung his arm high and turned to the west. His warriors would herd the intruders into the valley from the far side, thus closing the jaws of the trap his father had set.  The enemy would be crushed between them until there was not an orc or a goblin or a spider left alive in that part of Mirkwood.

~**~

The fighting was fierce. For the first two hours Legolas had little time for anything other than the instinctive direction of his troops and the slash and hack and leaping and diving of hand-to-hand combat. Gradually the forces of evil were forced into the valley and down the slopes until they collided with the enemy being driven before the Elven King. There they milled around in confusion, slipping on their own spilled blood and guts and making a stand in small groups, hemmed in by both elves and the valley sides. It felt as though the end must be approaching, but each time Legolas's elves seemed to be winning through, another group of orcs or goblins formed a resistant huddle. Legolas fired arrows until his were all lost and even the black orc arrows around him had mostly been re-used. Every time he caught sight of his father’s warriors, more spiders descended from the ruins of the forest and again there was time only for the slicing of knives and swords and the stabbing of spears.

Finally, sometime in the third hour, Legolas saw that the throng of evil was thinning, stretching narrow along the valley bottom. Soon they would be able to break through. His father’s forces were now easily visible, fewer in number than they had been, but fighting with vigour on the far side of the shallow river that meandered in its rocky bed through the low ground. A shout of encouragement went up from his own side of the valley and was answered as elf saw elf and knew the battle was almost won. The pace of the fighting picked up, weary sword arms and bloodied bodies forgotten in a rush of adrenaline.

At last Legolas caught a momentary glimpse of blond hair among the reds and browns of Silvan heads and was shocked by the intensity of the relief that flooded through him. It was then he understood, with startling clarity, that the feeling of dread burning beneath his breastbone for the entire day had been fear, fear that his father would fall before Legolas could ever find out the truth, and simply fear that he would fall and be gone forever beyond his son's reach. When this battle was over, he resolved, he would gather his courage and question the Elven King outright. Immortality was too long a span to wonder if your father cared if you lived or died.

The Elven King, for his part, had fought with equal determination both the enemy and his own desire to be close to his son. It made strategic sense that they led two separate groups of warriors. Legolas was not only one of his most trusted commanders, but also Thranduil's heir. Common sense dictated that they fought separately. However unpleasant the thought, the reality was that their bloodline was more likely to survive if they adhered to that rule.

The Elven King was also distinctive, and that was reason enough to keep his son at a distance as Thandruil attracted the unwelcome attention of many who wished for the fame of being his slayer. He was not one to fight in disguise, this being in part a matter of honour, but also the correct deduction that attention turned on him was attention turned away from his elves. As it was, he was readily identifiable to his own forces, giving them a focal point, and a sense of pride at being an elf of Mirkwood.

For all that, the needs of common sense and of heartfelt desire are rarely parallel. Thus Thranduil, knowing his decision was sound, nevertheless spent the entire battle in a state of uneasiness, concerned for the welfare of his son. Nothing would have pleased him more than to be fighting at his son's side, with Legolas close to the protective arc of his father's weapons. It was therefore with a sense of immense relief that he finally caught sight of his son on the opposite side of the river.

The Elven King fought, as he always did, at the forefront of his warriors, an imposing figure as he burst through a group of orc and forged his way relentlessly forwards over the jumble of rocks that formed the riverbank. He fought with controlled savagery, a true warlord, with a snarl on his face and his silver swords taking life with every stroke. Watching him, just for a moment, Legolas was transfixed, in the same way a small elfling is stunned when they first see their father in full fighting glory. It wasn't by any means the first time he’d seen his father fight; perhaps it was merely the vantage point, or perhaps the influence of the thoughts that had been running through his mind, that inkling suspicion that he knew his father, yet did not really know him at all.

It was in that brief moment of inattention that an orc, playing dead beneath Legolas's feet, snaked out a hand and tangled the elf, following through immediately with a vicious strike from his war hammer. Legolas fell, his natural agility enabling him to tuck and roll despite all the breath being knocked out of his body. He unfurled on the damp grass, flat on his back, gasping for air against the grate of broken ribs, and desperately seeking the strength to rise before the orc was upon him.

Fighting his way through a knot of orcs on the top of the rocks, the Elven King saw Legolas fall and heard his pained cry. It was as though he'd been struck himself. In a purely reflexive swing, his sword slashed through an orc neck as easily as a hot knife through butter, but all of his horrified attention turned to his son, who lay prostrate beneath a war hammer that was raised for a lethal blow. There was no possible way to reach Legolas in time to save him. Thranduil let out a shout of rage and fear as he hurled the sword from his left hand. It flew, arcing end over end like an over-sized throwing knife, although its balance and weight were not for that purpose, so that when it struck the orc the angle caused it to slide down oiled leather and armour.

The hammer was driven down.

On the far side of the water, without a sound, without moving a muscle and with no outward change, the Elven King shattered. The explosion of a thousand million crystal pieces of his fae were deafening in his own ears, their brilliance momentarily blinding. His only coherent thought was that it would be far preferable to fall upon his remaining sword than to ever take another breath.

Seeing the Elven King's distraction, not caring of the cause, a small goblin slipped from a cleft in the rock and leaped high onto his shoulders. Thranduil sank automatically into a crouch and cast the goblin away with a fluid movement. Rising again, he skewered the creature almost as an afterthought and sent the small corpse tumbling from the rocks. His gaze was drawn back to his son, and he almost fell with the shock of relief when he saw that Legolas had somehow evaded the strike and, rolling to the side, had snatched up a spear lying next to him, wedged the shaft into a gap between two stones and allowed the looming orc’s own momentum to drive the spearhead into its chest.

Thranduil dropped easily down to the ground below the rocks; no duty or protocol would now keep him from his son’s side; only the feel of living bone and flesh beneath his hands would convince him that Legolas was still alive.

It was a small leap for an elf and yet on landing Thranduil stumbled and would have fallen if it were not for the support of a large boulder against his right thigh. He halted, bewildered, becoming aware of something solid brushing the underside of his chin and a terrifying restriction on the left side of his chest. He fumbled above his collar, his fingers finding the shape of a knife handle. With a pained grimace, he drew it carefully upwards, past the side of his face, feeling the nauseating horror of a long, cold blade sliding free from his chest. The goblin’s dagger was so sharp that at first the wound did not hurt, and Thranduil stared at the bloodied length of the weapon in his hand in disbelief. Then, as though the sight of his own blood dripping from the blade freed his nerve endings to feel, he felt an agony so intense that he made a small and involuntary sound of distress. It was not loud enough to be heard by the elves nearby, although it made an orc turn its head in interest.

The Elven King raised his head slowly, his eyes seeking out his son as the colour seemed to leach out of the day.

Legolas’s gaze met his briefly and then moved on as the younger elf sought and found his bow. By the time he looked again, his father, standing tall, was facing a large orc. In haste, Legolas stooped to snatch up a couple of orc arrows, careful not to touch the arrowheads, which were most likely poisoned.

Thranduil was fighting a losing battle to stay upright as the orc approached. It sneered at him, reading weakness in the ragged shudder of his breath and the shake of his sword arm. The Elven King was now easy prey.

It was so cold, thought Thranduil in a vague way; all the heat of the battle and the warm day seemed to have drained away. He was finding it hard to concentrate even on the peril before him, wanting only to get to Legolas. He was suddenly so very tired, too weak to even raise the sword in his right hand, and far too weak to cross the small river.

The orc grinned at him with rotting, green teeth and took hold of him with its lumpy fist. It shook him, grunting its pleasure, toying with him like a cat with a mouse. The Elven King exerted all his will and managed to bring his sword up enough to slash at the creature, but the blow did nothing other than enrage it. It cast Thranduil away in disgust, so that he sprawled in a boneless way across the top of the boulder at his side.

It hurt too much to scream, far too much to breathe; there was only fiery pain and the sight of the orc above him. The sword slipped out of his numb fingers, tumbling and twisting down onto the stones. It was too late, too late to talk to his son, to tell him that he loved him just as much as his mother had. A tear of pure despair slid like a translucent pearl down the side of the King’s fair face, disappearing into the pale strands of his hair where it draped across the boulder. Too late.

Then there was a shout and the thud and crunch and spray of an arrow breaking a skull and the orc was gone. Light elven feet scattered small pebbles and Legolas had hold of his shoulders, panic clear in his wide eyes.

“Lord King?”  On a rising note. “Adar!” It had been forever since that word crossed the lips of the younger elf.

Beneath Legolas’s shaking hands, Thranduil moaned, blood on his lips and on his bared teeth. He tried, so hard, to say something, but the day disappeared in tattered flags and left only darkness.

“Ai, ai!” The cry that burst from Legolas brought elves running in their direction as his hands jerked open the fastenings of Thranduil’s armour, revealing the small entrance wound that was the only mark of such terrible injury. Blood still pulsed in a slow and sluggish tide from the purple edges of the wound, but the touch of his father’s fae on his own was the brush of the lightest of feathers.

“Ada! Please!”

Then Legolas was thrust away without care for his station and he went willingly because it was a healer who bent over his father, and also unwillingly, terrified that by releasing the physical being he would also somehow set adrift the tiny remaining sense he had of his father’s soul. He hovered near to Thrandruil’s feet, oblivious to the pain in his own ribs, his life slowly breaking into discordant pieces as his fingers slipped in the blood painted on the armoured boots of mithril.

_To be continued…more soon. Love to know what you think?_


	3. Chapter 3

~**~

It was immediately apparent that, with the Elven King grievously injured, his subjects would be turning to his son for direction. Within moments of the first healer reaching Thranduil’s side, a decision landed at the unsteady feet of his heir.

“The King has sustained a terrible wound. He needs to move to a place of safety.”

The soft tones of Mithrildes slowly penetrated the layers of shock. Realising he was being addressed, Legolas looked at her in confusion. The words, first a mere jumble of noise, gradually fell into a sensible order.

“The Halls?” Even as his tongue stumbled over the suggestion, he knew it was useless. His father could not be moved so far, and looked unlikely to survive any move at all. Legolas shook his head impatiently at his own foolishness. “Of course not. Somewhere close by, but away from this accursed stench of orc and death.”

So it was that Legolas, distraught and injured in his own right, had to rein in his emotions and try to detach himself, at least in part, from the fact that Thranduil was dying in front of him. The fact that he actually managed to do so was a testament to the steely strength that existed in the core of his being. It would not occur to him until later that in assuming the mantle of command in those most desperate of circumstances, he was duplicating Thranduil’s courage at the Battle of Dagorlad when Oropher was brutally slain. Thranduil had fought his own horror and grief to take command of the remains of the army, after many years bringing his elves home to the Woodland Realm.

In what seemed like only minutes, a litter was constructed and the Elven King borne away, accompanied by the ranking healer and surrounded by a protective guard, all with grief etched deep on their faces. Legolas, wanting only to follow them, found himself caught up in the organisation of warriors. His countenance frozen into a grim mask, he issued terse orders, despatching the walking wounded and the mercifully small numbers of dead back to the Elven King’s Halls. Those more seriously wounded moved to a camp set up around the huge trunks of two mighty oak trees, where they could be attended by the healers. It was beneath those same mighty trees that their King lay in silence in a hastily constructed shelter.

Legolas hid any sign of his own discomfort, his breaths so shallow that he felt dizzy as he doggedly oversaw the positioning of the defensive perimeter and ensured that his warriors had both food and water. There was little risk of attack from spiders after the battle, with any in that part of Mirkwood either dead or long since fled to dark corners as far from the elves as possible. Nonetheless, only a fool fails to take precautions.

The trees themselves were in a state of agitation at the spilling of elven blood and the dimming life-force of their ruler. Those growing within the encampment bent their boughs to give maximum shelter, and those outside the defensive perimeter dropped their lower branches to tangle with bushes and thorns and create a living barrier. Elves took to the trees, and birds and animals lent their sharp eyesight to the vigilant watch for danger.

His father still lived. Of that at least Legolas felt assured; the trees told him so, their vibrations anxious, laced with veins of grief at the loss and injury of elves, but devoid of the shock waves that would pass through them if the Elven King himself died. Such grief would know no bounds, intimately bonded with the forest as Thranduil was.

His duties finally discharged, Legolas passed slowly through the encampment, relieved to see that the injured had all been tended and were resting. It was with increasing disquiet that he noted the elves with whom he spoke were overly deferential in their manner when he paused to offer words of encouragement or comfort. Of course they'd always treated him with great respect, being the son of the King, but their communication was usually tempered with the knowledge that the younger elf preferred easy and informal interaction. Now their eyes dropped without meeting his and elven heads inclined, much as they would have if the King was at his side. Even amidst them as he was, it made him feel isolated and did nothing to alleviate his state of anxiety. Their King was not dead. Not yet.

It was a strange thing that during every second since his father was borne away, Legolas had wanted only to be by his side, but now with the Elven Kings' shelter before him, he found himself reluctant to enter. He had forced the nightmare image of Thranduil lying in his own blood to the back of his mind so he could function; now it could be avoided no longer.

The warm glow of healing seeped through the woven walls of branches and grasses, and the soft voices of healers could be heard, yet still Legolas hovered, indecisive, until the decision was taken out of his hands when Mithrildes lifted the cloak that served as a door. 

"Hir-nin!"

She was visibly startled and moved swiftly to one side to let him pass, dipping her head politely.

"How does the King fare?"

She faced him, honesty, deep sorrow and exhaustion in equal measures on her face. 

"The King is alive," she said simply. 

"Will he remain so?"

At first, Legolas thought she would not answer, but then she dropped her gaze and spoke quietly.

"I shall entreat the Valar that it is the outcome."

It was a healer's way of saying it was out of her hands. Unable to speak further past the lump in his throat, Legolas nodded his thanks and entered the shelter, feeling the swish of the cloak as it dropped into place behind him and cut off the outside world.

On a low platform, padded out with moss and grasses and covered with a cloak, Thranduil lay, his torso and head propped up to aid his breathing so that to a casual observer it would have appeared he was merely reclining on the makeshift bed. He was clad in simple breeches and an under-tunic of linen, cut and folded down on one side so it lay clear of the site of the wound. Spread across his upper chest, just below the collar-bone, was a thick, green paste of herbs and their pungent and cleansing smell filled the small area.

Poison then. It was no surprise. 

Legolas moved forward on hesitant feet, paying no heed to the healers who stepped aside to give him access to his father. Thranduil was so pale his skin seemed almost translucent, with the only visible colour a tinge of blue around his lips and in the shadows painted beneath the dark curve of his eyelashes. Legolas's stomach clenched; to see his father so helpless, eyes closed, was terrifying.

"Has the King regained consciousness?"

"Not yet, hir-nin."

"I will sit with him a while, but do not let me disturb you."

"The Elven King will benefit greatly from your presence."

Legolas contained a snort with difficulty; if only that were true.

The healer bowed in a formal manner and retreated with his comrade to a corner of the shelter, where they murmured in low tones about remedies and the effect of poison on someone who was already so injured.

Finally as alone as he was likely to be, Legolas moved closer to the bed through air that seemed suddenly thick and resistant to his passage. He lowered himself slowly to his knees, too worn and distracted to prevent the hiss that burst from his lips as his broken ribs grated together.

Immediately a healer was at his side and after a brief and pointless attempt to pretend he was unhurt, Legolas gave up and submitted to their anxious ministrations. He bore the application of herbs and bandages stoically and drank the pain-relieving infusion of herbs pressed into his hand, knowing acquiescence was the swiftest way for him to be released to his father's side. After what seemed far too long, he was finally freed to sink gingerly on to a small tree trunk beside the bed.

His father was still deeply unconscious, only the slightest movement of his chest showing that he still lived. It was not unusual to see him motionless; Thranduil had long since perfected the art of appearing like a marble statue when he so desired, but even in stillness he exuded ancient and timeless power. Now that was eerily absent.

"I am sorry, adar," Legolas said in a soft voice, not sure of how his father sustained his injury but feeling nonetheless that in some way it had been his fault. He was not given time to dwell on the matter.

"I regret the intrusion, hir-nin, but I need to..."

A servant, bearing a bowl of hot water, was at his side. Tendrils of steam, fragrant with the perfume of mint, rose and curled lazily in the warm candlelight. The servant gestured apologetically at the Elven King’s head and Legolas belatedly realised that Thranduil’s hair was not the sleek cascade he normally presented to the world. Rather, it was drawn back from his face, so as to be clear of the wound, and hung over the end of the bed to trail on the floor. The long strands were all tangled, stiff and dark with dried blood. In some ways it said more about the state of Thranduil’s health than any other visible thing and it brought a sting of tears to his son’s eyes. Wordlessly he took the bowl from the servant and waved him away. This at least he could do for his father.

It took almost an hour and several bowls of warm water before Legolas was satisfied. In some unexplainable way the careful cleansing of each matted handful proved a comfort to them both. The passage of smooth strands through his fingers eased a little of the despair in Legolas’s heart, and a hint of colour returned to his father’s face, almost as though he was aware on some level of the careful attention.

Many years, even in the terms of an immortal, had passed since Legolas had been allowed, or wished, to take a comb to Thranduil’s hair. It was not unknown for an ellon or elleth to braid the hair of another even in adulthood, although such an act of grooming was normally reserved for immediate family members with whom an emotional bond existed. In truth, Thranduil’s magnificent mane never appeared to need any grooming, seeming to be held in place by strength of will alone. If it had required the application of a comb, then both he and Legolas would have been equally disconcerted at the suggestion that Legolas do the combing. It was therefore slightly unnerving to take a simple, wooden comb and run it through the long, pale sections. Perhaps it was inevitable that it brought forth a memory so strong that Legolas had to close his eyes under the impact.

 _He was just an_ _elfling_ _, small enough that he stood upon his father’s lap, the feel of silk cloth over warm muscle beneath his bare feet. Even standing upright, his face was still only just level with Thranduil’s. One tiny hand gripped his father’s hair for balance, twisted so deeply that the warmth of a pointed ear was beneath his fingers. The other small hand earnestly dragged a comb of shiny mother of pearl through the long, golden sheet of hair on the other side of Thranduil’s face, tangling it hopelessly and causing a great_ _knot around the comb._ _No amount of effort could free it. Frustration and shame spilled from the tiny elfling’s eyes in scalding drops, gently wiped away by a long finger._

_“Ion-nin. Do not weep, my Greenleaf.”_

_His father, face grave but eyes sparkling with amusement._

_“I am sorry,_ _ada."_ _Legolas gave a wet sniff._

_“Legolas, it matters not. There are greater evils than the tangling of some hair.”_

_In his memory,_ _Thranduil_ _smiled at him, a veritable bird’s nest on one side of his face and his eyes full of warmth._

Ada, thought Legolas with grief, snapping his eyes open. That was when Thranduil was still just Ada.

~**~

Floating in warm darkness was pleasant. Thranduil couldn’t remember a time when there were no demands on his attention. He had made a dreamy decision to stay there, wherever it was, when he was rudely interrupted by a sonorous and ancient voice. He tried to ignore it at first, but it was insistent, prodding at the edges of his consciousness until he was forced to listen.

“He is not ready. He may never be ready. You are the Elven King.”

Thranduil recognised it now, the rich flow of sap within strong wood unmistakable. The Oak. Many times he had conversed with this ancient being.

“I am the Elven King,” he acknowledged, puzzled because now he felt sharp concern, twisting and tumbling like a falling arrow in his thoughts. Legolas.

“My son!”

“Is injured, but alive.” The voice reassured him, its song low and rhythmic. “He strives to care for the well-being of Mirkwood, but he grieves for his father.”

Thranduil found himself suddenly more alert. “I am dead then?”

“Not yet Lord King, but your son fears it will be so.”

“It may be better for him if I were to die.” He felt no bitterness, only deep sorrow and the anguish of lost opportunities. “I do not wish to cause him any more suffering.”

“Then you must live, Lord King. He needs his father.”

“I wish it were so.” Thranduil’s words fell soundlessly into cool air, heavy with the scent of candle wax and herbs and mint. He recognised immediately the feel of his son’s hands upon his hair. “Legolas.” Only a thought, not even a breath, no matter how hard he tried.

The pain came back then, so intense he could not move or make a sound. “I am a warrior,” he told himself with savage intent. “A King. I can fight. For my son.”

~**~

The pink blush of dawn brought with it a harried rider from the Elven King's Halls and an unwelcome fever for the ruler of Mirkwood that dusted a red stain across his cheekbones.

Legolas retreated, making way for the changing of dressings and an anxious flurry of healers. He pushed his way into the cool morning air in time to see the rider take down a pack of medical supplies from the back of his foam-flecked horse. With a brief pause for a thankful pat and fervent thanks into the mare’s sweaty ear, the rider passed the sack to the nearest healer. Finding Legolas behind him, he bowed deeply.

"The return party are almost at the Halls, hir-nin. The counsellors ask when your lordship will return, to deal with matters of the realm?"

Legolas regarded him with a fierce expression, looking every inch his father’s son. The rider quailed.

"Please inform the counsellors that I shall be remaining at the King's side until such time as he is fit to travel."  Or dead, Legolas thought privately, struggling to maintain his iron control over a heart that hammered with fear. "Any urgent decisions that are required can be made perfectly well from here."

Suddenly becoming aware of the rider’s subservient stance, and already regretting his harsh tone, Legolas clapped a hand on the ellon’s shoulder and directed him with thanks to take food and rest before his return to the Halls.

Throughout that day Legolas divided his time between his necessary duties and his father's bedside. Thranduil’s temperature climbed alarmingly although the healers laid cool, wet cloths upon his person. It was to no avail. The ruler of Mirkwood slipped slowly into a state of delirium.

Legolas, with no idea how to assist, caught up his father's long fingers as they shivered across the cloths, thinking somehow to ground him. He gave a small and rueful smile when he realised his adar's hand was still longer than his own. Some things never changed it seemed. The sight of their hands together, the forgotten feel of his father's skin against his own, brought another unexpected wave of nostalgic memories, things long-buried under misunderstandings. Unconsciously, Legolas tightened his grip.

~**~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind reviews. The next chapter will be up soon.
> 
> Love to hear from you.


	4. Chapter 4

~**~

The Elven King's swords slashed and cut, drawing deadly patterns of silver light in the gloom. The enemy came in endless waves, looming out of dark shadows, dropping from boughs overhead or snagging at the King's legs as though the surface beneath his feet possessed disembodied hands of its own.

Sometimes the scenery changed without warning; at one moment he fought in a forest glade, the next he found himself in steaming marshes or on a rock-strewn mountainside. Thranduil persevered despite the claws that raked at him inside his chest, closing his mind resolutely to the crack of breaking bone beneath his swords and the splash of stinking blood across his face.

One step at a time. Corpses behind him, dying things at his side, always another creature ahead. So exhausted he was no longer sure why he was fighting, only that there was something he desperately needed to reach.

One step at a time, doggedly forwards, adjusting his aim to take account of the differing heights of orc and goblin and spider and other nameless beings, half-seen in the dim light.

One step at a time, until eventually he slipped and went down on his knees. His head dropped, defeat now seemed inevitable.

"You are a mighty King."

The smooth voice issued from thin air. Thranduil lurched back to his full height, head swinging suspiciously from side to side, sword at the ready. Nothing. Even the enemy seemed to have disappeared.

"Perhaps the great Elven King grows weary? Perhaps the prize is not worth the fight after all?"

He knew the voice now; smooth, glossy, yet tough and viciously spiked. The Holly. He found himself irked at the tone. How dare the prickly little tree speak to him in that manner? And why did it know the nature of the prize when he did not?

"It appears I cannot remember..."

His haughty words trailed off as light flooded out of the sky. Above him, hazy but instantly recognisable, the bent head of his son, who sat beside him, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Legolas was injured, that much was obvious, jagged flaws a discordant note in the emerald song of his fae. Injuries that were not healing, as though his son had lost the will to self-heal as an elf should. Thranduil struggled to keep his eyes open, but the morass beneath him was too deep, too powerful even for an Elven King.

"Help me," he pleaded, not knowing to whom he spoke, not knowing where he was, knowing only that he must reach his son's side before he faded, to give the healing only a king could give. He stared around in desperation, finding himself on the slopes of a mountain ridge. Instinctively he knew it must be crossed.

The taste of a tincture of the bark came to him first, offering some small pain relief. Willow. Supple, delicate upon the riverbank, but strong enough to survive most spring floods. It reminded him that life is like the river; it is possible to spend long days dreaming with your roots taking what they need from the water, but on occasion the water rises and rages and it takes all your will to survive.

"The foe will be terrible, Lord King, but you cannot give way if you are to reach the other side."

"I desire only to save my son."

"Even if you lose him anyway?"

The thought alone took his breath.

"Even then." His whisper echoed around him, mocking and sibilant.

"Then Lord King, you must endure."

The sun rose as suddenly as if dawn had been hovering on the cusp. Weak sunlight picked out the jagged heights, painted shape into the folds of rock. And Thranduil's heart cried out with fear, for the mountain was not only terrible and beautiful but also familiar, a place of nightmare made real.

.

His father started, the sudden movement bringing Legolas's head out of his hands. The King's face was tight with fear and the younger elf wondered at the dark paths Thranduil trod in his delirium.

Gently he put a hand towards his father's forehead, thinking to soothe him, but drew it back when his sharp eyesight picked out the finest web of scar on Thranduil's left cheek. What strangeness was this? He raised his head, puzzled, but Mithrildes was already moving towards him. With the most careful of touches she smoothed her palm down Thranduil's cheek, wiping away the network of grey lines.

"What is this?"

"It is nothing," she reassured him. "The remains of an old wound."

He frowned. "I remember no such wound?"

"It was long before your birth, hir-nin. You should not trouble yourself." The reassuring words and tone sat ill with the sorrow on her face.

"What manner of evil would leave a scar for so long, upon one of elven kind, and a king no less? Why do I not know of it?"

She bowed formally. "It is not my place to know the mind of a King. If he chooses not to speak of it, then he must have his reasons."

Legolas subsided, fuming inside. Another secret then. He could order her to speak but his pride would not allow it, tethered as it was by the pity in her gaze.

It was timely for Legolas's temper that a polite scratch on the door cloth interrupted them. Mithrildes hurried to see who waited outside and, after a brief and hushed conversation, informed him that his presence was required.

Thranduil appeared to be momentarily at rest, frozen in place, his face as pale in the candlelight as the white gems of Lasgalen. Despite the odds, he still managed to look both aloof and regal and his son wondered with a touch of guilty humour what his father would think of being clothed in simple linen and lying on a cloak. With a sigh, he turned away and strode out into welcome daylight.

"Tarthalion!"

There was no-one Legolas would rather have seen before him. Quite forgetting his own status, as he often did, he clasped the forearm of the ancient elf in greeting.

Steady eyes of deepest blue showed their affection for the King's son, even as the respectful dip of Tarthalion's dark head and the firm but discreet pat on the back of Legolas's hand reminded him that at times like this appearances were of particular importance.

"I did not expect you here! But I am more grateful than I can say that you have come."

"I came as soon as I heard, hir-nin. The patrol has returned to the Halls to reinforce the guard there."

Tarthalion was heading a patrol on a sweep of the northern boundaries of the realm when Legolas and his father set out from the Halls to face the horde. As one of the Elven King's most trusted warriors, he would normally have fought at Thranduil's side and that thought was obviously playing on Tarthalion's mind.

"I should have been with the King..."

"It was not your fault," said Legolas firmly.

"Nonetheless, I should have been at his side." Tarthalion took a deep breath, his gaze straying to the shelter. "He lives?"

Legolas gave a grim nod, and gestured for the warrior to follow him.

It was not protocol for a warrior to visit a king when he was laid low, and yet Tarthalion had served Oropher long before Thranduil was born. In time he became Thranduil's weapons' trainer while the future king was an elfling; a role that continued into adulthood and until Thranduil was as proficient as himself. With the heart of a warrior, Tarthalion's was often the practical advice that tempered the words of Thranduil's counsellors. In some ways he knew the King better than anyone still living and, without losing any measure of respect, the nature of the warrior elf's private communication with Thranduil was almost fatherly. It was only right he should now be allowed into the Elven King's presence.

The close bond between ruler and subject was obvious in the way the warrior hovered, stricken, over the bed before going down on one knee. He seemed to forget Legolas was present as he spoke directly to Thranduil as though he was fully conscious, informing him in calm, gruff tones of the movements of the patrol and chastising him gently for going to battle without Tarthalion at his side. The King's head rolled slowly in his direction, as if Thranduil heard him on some distant field of delirium, and Legolas bit down on an unworthy feeling of jealously that some warrior could reach his father so easily when he could not. He shook himself mentally for having such a thought and, being Legolas, easily found his better nature.

"You have known my father since he was an elfling," he said carefully.

Tarthalion straightened. "It has been my pleasure to serve the Elven King, and your grandfather before him."

"He would count you as a friend?"

"I would not presume..."

"Please, Tarthalion. I do not seek to entrap you in being disrespectful." Legolas breathed deep, calming himself. "I merely wish to know more about my father."

To his credit, Tarthalion did not suggest it was better to ask the Elven King himself, although he did look deeply uncomfortable.

"What does my Lord wish to know? The King's life as ruler is all recorded in the histories of Mirk Wood."

It was shameful to admit it out loud. "I know him well enough as a ruler. What I desire is to know him as an elf." As I should know my father, he thought. As any elf should know their father, king or not.

Tarthalion considered the earnest set to the younger elf's expression, the honest desire in his blue eyes, and nodded his understanding.

"As an elf then." He waited for Legolas to indicate that he could be seated and lowered himself to the grass. "I remember Thranduil well as a small elfling, long before we arrived in Greenwood the Great. He was much like you were yourself, hir-nin. All long legs and full of life and laughter, very mischievous. He was a pleasure to teach and quick to learn, although he preferred sword play where you prefer the bow."

Tarthalion's gaze was far away with memory, and all of Legolas's attention focussed upon his words.

"By the time he reached the age of majority, your father was taking an active part in the running of the realm and was a keen warrior. Your grandfather, seeking to direct Thranduil's wild energy, gave him command of a band of warriors who were despatched to the corners of Greenwood the Great and far beyond; tales of their exploits travelled back to the realm in song. King Oropher did not entirely approve, but darkness was rising fast in Middle Earth and his son needed leadership and combat experience to hone his skills." He smiled fondly. "It seemed they were always seeking the next adventure and in truth, they made quite a name for themselves. Thranduil was truly his namesake."

Legolas tried to keep the disbelief from his face. He was not completely successful. "He seems to have changed somewhat."

Tarthalion inclined his head. "That is so, hir-nin. There are many things that can happen in life that change an elf and the front he presents to the world."

"I would know of those things that change an elf so."

The question whether or not Tarthalion would have continued was swept aside with the arrival of a harried rider and the report that spiders were on the move, heading towards the encampment. For the time being at least Legolas had to be content with the little he had learned.

"I must leave, hir-nin."

It went without saying that Tarthalion's place was on the field of conflict. Legolas hovered, indecisive, every fibre telling him to fight, and yet some instinct bidding him to stay with his father.

The warrior saw his indecision and spoke gently. "The King needs you."

Legolas snorted. "I fear the King has never needed me."

Tarthalion's look was fathomless. He bowed formally. "In that, hir-nin, you are sorely mistaken."

.

A sharp gust of wind picked up the tail of Thranduil's black cloak, snapped it hard enough that the crack of cloth carried over the bleak stones. He stood tall, a shining being in this place of gloomy shadows and weak sunlight. The wind tugged at his hair so that it streamed golden over his shoulders, those strands heavy with dried blood falling down to rattle against his armour.

The Elven King was frozen with fear, knowing he had to climb over the ridge, but physically unable to move. His every instinct screamed at him to turn and flee, to run until his lungs coughed blood, for the thing that lived on the mountain was his personal Mordor.

"You must go on." The wise, warm song of the Beech.

"I cannot fail," he agreed, but his voice had lost its normal rich tones, had become husky and ragged.

"The prize is great."

"The prize is all I have. Yet still it seems I fear." Thranduil squared his shoulders, sent an unspoken plea to the Valar and took a resolute step forwards.

Nothing happened, other than the slow shift of small, jagged stones beneath his feet. He took a breath, the air biting at his lungs. There was an injury there, he knew, but it did not belong in this time or place. It could be ignored. For now.

Another step. It seemed he could hear someone speaking. A calm, deep voice. He could not make out the words, only the reassurance and affection surrounding them. It gave him courage. Last time he had not been alone; there had been others, although only one of his companions had survived.

"Ion-nin, I do this for you. If I should fail…" The thought was unbearable. "I cannot fail. You are worth more than anything to me."

Thranduil took another slow step. Above him, high on the mountain slope, a dark shadow stirred. He gripped his swords, tried to swallow and could not.

"Legolas."

When the shadow above him reared up on its hind legs and spread its wings, the light of the sun was blocked out; all he could see was the red of its eyes and the dribble of flame from its nostrils.

They faced each other, as they had done long ago. The elf, tall and beautiful and terrible, all silver and gold and ice. The great dragon lord of the north, powerful and ancient as the mountains, all smoke and flame and poisonous fumes.

~**~


	5. Chapter 5

~**~

(For the purposes of this chapter, italics relate to Thranduil’s nightmare world.)

.

__"Legolas."_ _

_The speaking of his son’s name was a statement of purpose. He let the word linger on his tongue until the fingers of the wind snatched it and carried it away across the broken rock of the mountain, almost as though the air too was in league against him. Perhaps here, in this place of dragons, it was indeed his enemy._

_._

It was one word in a voice husky with lack of use, amplified only by a damaged chest. Nonetheless it reached the ears of Thranduil’s son, and though it was weak in volume it was still powerful enough to tear his fingers from the doorway and send him running to the bed, his heart so full of hope it was painful.

The King's eyes were open at last, although they did not see Legolas. His gaze fixed instead on some point high above the younger elf's right shoulder, the intensity such that Legolas was obliged to twist his neck to check nothing was there.

.

_The audacity of the small creature that dared to enter his territory enraged the dragon. He let loose a venomous hiss and a jet of scalding steam, ejected at frightening velocity from gaping nostrils, shattered a frost-damaged boulder some distance below._

_Thranduil lifted his chin in defiant response, fixing his enemy with his most disdainful glare. Swords ready, a natural extension of his being, he stepped smoothly forwards and upwards, almost gliding across the uneven ground, a study in grace in a place where there was none._

_“You do not alarm me, you vile worm. I have seen more steam in the kitchens in my Halls.”_

_The Dragon Lord rumbled, deep in his chest, not expecting the prey to walk towards him. It made the game all the more interesting, although the creature gave off an unpleasant glow and its hair was almost painfully bright in the sunlight. No matter. Soon it would be aflame and burning with an altogether more agreeable light._

_The Elven King halted and eyed the dragon with disfavour as he twirled one sword lazily, fully aware that the glitter of the blade was unnerving to his foe._

_“Well serpent, do you wish to fly away?"_

_A dark eyebrow rose slowly in an arrogant and bored manner. It was essential that the dragon was provoked enough to descend to his level. If it simply sat above him and spouted flame then he was finished._

_Irked, the dragon shifted position until it was coiled on its powerful hind legs and the sunlight caught on the burnished ox-blood red of its scales. Never breaking eye contact, it launched itself down the mountainside and landed on a rocky ledge a few dragon lengths above Thranduil. Rocks scattered beneath the weight of curved talons and a jet of flame spewed forth to explode in yellow and orange and crimson close to the King’s position. He threw himself clear in a fluid motion, knowing he was being toyed with, tested, and came to rest atop a small boulder, the smell of his own singed hair strong in his nostrils and the taste of burnt air bitter on his tongue._

_"Legolas."_

_The word had a desperate ring this time, uttered only because Thranduil needed to hear the name spoken out loud. Even here, tangled with dragon steam, it brought him comfort._

_._

Legolas found himself mesmerised by the play of expressions across his father’s face and the unexpected emotions seething in the depths of his unguarded eyes.  The composed mask was gone, melted by fever to leave his father exposed and vulnerable. Was it possible that Thranduil was always so? A lava field seething beneath a deceptive sheet of highly polished ice?

His father twisted urgently in response to something fearful in his dreams, then stilled, one hand resting against the rough bark of the mighty oak tree. His breath caught in his throat and for a fleeting second he looked almost scared, an eerily unfamiliar expression on a face that smoothed out so quickly Legolas was left wondering if he’d imagined it.

For all that, it stirred something in Legolas's mind, and he caught at the trailing hem of an old memory. He remembered the peace of it first, being bundled up in a large soft cloak at his father’s side, still young enough that his head was permitted to lie against Thranduil's shoulder and his toes were curled into the soft material of his father's breeches. A feast under the stars, he recalled, back in the years before the threat of spiders was close to the Elven King's Halls. Afterwards, in a trance of fine wine and song the elves had rested on flets in the trees. The young Legolas had been half asleep, drifting through glades of song, when he was jolted awake by soft sounds of distress and the clawing of his father's hand upon the cloak, his fingers white as exposed bone in the moonlight.

"Ada?"

The young, clear tone of his elfling voice had been afraid, and that had been enough to bring Thranduil back to himself with a gasp. His father had risen quickly to a sitting position and turned away, dropping his face into his hands and allowing the fall of his hair to screen him from his son's view.

"Do not be afraid, ion-nin. It was only a dream." The muffled words had unsettled the young Legolas as much as the rapid tremble of his father's leg against his own.

Even then, when things had been easy between them, there had been secrets. Legolas flexed his hand, using forefinger and thumb to massage the tired feeling around his eyes.

"Why did you never tell me what haunted your dreams, adar?" He sighed. "And why did I never ask?"

In a fit of pique, his inner voice reminded him sharply that his father would not have replied. The voice battled briefly with his innate sense of fairness and lost.

"Perhaps I never gave him the chance."

Legolas was deep in self-recrimination and his study of the King's features and when his name slipped over Thranduil’s lips for the second time he jumped, momentarily an elfling again, caught peeking where he should not. But his father's mind was far away and his features had tightened into the taut lines of pre-combat readiness. Legolas brushed aside flakes of dried herb from the King’s chest and arm, noting absently that the wound was oozing a little and wondering what foe faced Thranduil over the battleground of delirium.

.

_Something in the angle of the dragon lord’s wings, the curl of its tail, suggested it was amused by Thranduil’s posturing. It belched a small fireball, perhaps the dragon equivalent of a chuckle? It was still too far away; even an elf can only run so fast._

_“You are not as fine a specimen as I was led to believe.” Thranduil pointed out with a redolent air. “It is disappointing, having travelled so far. I wonder…is your hoard as miserable?”_

_Voice projection was not an issue for a King, and it was clear from the shifting stance of the dragon that it heard his insults clearly. Thranduil tensed, ready to move. Even so, he was almost too late and only centuries of honing his natural abilities and a fair dose of fear enabled him to evade the torrent of flame that poured down upon him. Dragon fire licked at his greaves as he hurled himself into the small shelter provided by the leeside of a boulder where he curled tight against its surface and waited for the firestorm to end._

_It was there, pressed against cold rock in imitation of a limpet, that he realised he could feel the coarse bark of the oak tree beneath his hand. Mirkwood, and Legolas, were very near. If he could only shake off this nightmare and wake._

_“You cannot avoid fate, Lord King.” The Oak reminded him._

_“I desire to see my child, even if it is only for a moment.”_

As he spoke Thranduil pressed hard against the bark with his palm, concentrating on the sensation until his hand on the trunk, then his arm, then a hazy view of the interior of a small shelter became visible. With a start, he found himself back in air scented with the living sap of the forest. He was aware immediately of the throb of infection in his chest, but far more importantly aware of the presence of his son, hovering anxiously over him with a peculiar look on his face.

“Adar!” Legolas was too surprised to notice the familiar term that burst out of him. “I will fetch the healers.” Already he was turning away.

“No!” Too harsh. His son frowned his confusion and displeasure and Thranduil made an apologetic gesture with his hand. “In a moment. I wish to speak with you.”

“There will be time for speech when you are recovered, Lord King.” Legolas was on his feet, face paling at the sudden movement and arm wrapped unconsciously around his ribs.

“Stay.” Thranduil softened his tone. “You are hurt, ion-nin.”

“It is nothing. It will heal.”

“And yet it has not.”

“It is healing; I am just a little tired.”

More than a little tired, Thranduil thought. You have taken on my role while I lie here tangled in fever dreams, and the weight of it shows in your eyes. “The care of the realm is a great burden,” he said carefully.

Legolas regarded him with a strange expression. “It is not currently my greatest burden.” Some emotion tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I did not think…” His throat moved convulsively as he swallowed, unable to meet his father’s eyes. “I thought you may die.”

Thranduil’s heart contracted with sorrow at the pain he had so clearly caused. “I am hopeful that I will not,” he said lightly, a small smile hovering on his lips. “Although I fear this fever must run its course before I heal.” It was the only warning he could give his child that this interlude was not the end of it. Already the pull of the morass was increasing, seeking to suck him back to his nightmare.

“Your chest, it pains you?” Concern was sharp in Legolas’s tone.

It did pain him greatly, but that was of no matter, although it could perhaps be used for another purpose. “Do we have athelas?” he asked, praying to the valar that it was so.

“Of course!” His son was in motion immediately, his arm still wrapped protectively around his torso. Ever caring for the needs of others, he had no suspicion that the herb was intended for himself. Thranduil took the proffered sprig with relief, massaging it between fingers made clumsy by fever until the aromatic oil scented the room. Always powerful, in the hands of a king the simple plant had the power to cure many ills and would surely lift some of the dark cloud from Legolas’s fae, thus allowing his natural self-healing processes to begin.

“Come closer.” The Elven King spoke quietly, as though it was an effort, and predictably his son obliged. “Breathe as deeply as you can without causing further damage.”

“What?” The younger elf scowled at him. “The herb is for your use; it will aid your recovery.”

“It will aid my recovery more to see my son on the path to healing.” Thranduil crushed a leaf impatiently. “Do not make me order you.” The scowl deepened but Legolas complied, angling himself carefully forwards and breathing in slowly until his face began to pale.

“Enough.” Thranduil was feeling dizzy himself. “Here, take this.” He pushed the bruised leaves towards his son and sank back against the raised pillow. “Where is everyone?”

“There was a small rising of spiders.” Legolas waved away his concern. “It is finished. The healers are checking a few small injuries.” He smiled ruefully. “They have not left your side for days.”

It was fortunate they had done so now, thought Thranduil, otherwise there would have been no opportunity for him to be alone with his son.  “I regret that I have put this upon you,” he began, intending to continue but cut short by a question that burst from his son.

“What happened? I did not see.”

“I was distracted. A small goblin thought to make a name for itself.”

It was not a question Thranduil wished to answer, but his son was not letting it go so easily.

“Distracted? I can think of no reason the Elven King would find himself distracted in the middle of a fight!”

“Perhaps not. But there are many reasons a father may be so.”

Bright blue eyes widened in surprise and horror. “The fault was mine?”

“No! The mistake was mine and mine alone.” Thranduil closed his eyes briefly, hoping to contain their emotion when he opened them again. It was clear from his son’s expression that he had not been successful. “I thought…I thought the orc had…” It seemed he could not even utter the words.

His son was frozen, hurt on his face. “I was not sure you would care.”

The impact of the words were as painful as the burn in his chest. Thranduil swallowed, his voice husky. “You are my son.”

There was no hiding the bitterness. “That does not seem to concern you at any other time. I have not been of worth to you since I was a small elfling.” With an angry movement, Legolas was on his feet. “What happened, Lord King? What did I do to displease you so greatly?”

Now there were tears in Thranduil’s eyes and he hated them more for the fact that they blurred his view of his child than for their weakness. “You do not displease me.”

“Yet it seems I cannot please you either. A thousand times I have tried to talk to you since I returned, but you care more for your kingdom than your son.”

Thranduil swallowed. His grip on this reality was slipping, already he could smell the brimstone of dragon breath.

“Ion-nin.” Unconsciously he pulled fretfully at the linen tunic, easing it further away from his chest. “The fault is mine, but you are mistaken.” Sunlight filtered through the shelter roof and lit his son’s head in gold; sometimes he looked so like his mother it was agony.

“You are my child. You are worth more to me than anything.”

_~**~_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems there will be another chapter!  
> Thank you for sticking with the story. As always, I love to hear from you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are graphic scenes in the paragraphs marked **. Before reading those, please bear in mind the nature of dragons, their primary weapon and its effects upon the living. It is possible to read this chapter without those paragraphs if you prefer.

~**~

 

Legolas found he had to look away, the simple statement so profound it took his breath. For so long he had wanted only to hear those words, and now he wasn't sure what to do with them.

"Adar..."

He turned to his father, but Thranduil wasn't listening; rather he looked dazed, his fingers tugging at the edge of the tunic as though the fabric itself caused him discomfort. Legolas snared the hand in his own to comfort him, and in doing so the back of his fingers brushed his father’s chest and found the skin taut and burning as though heated with a fire from within. Thranduil shuddered at the touch and his eyes sought his son, but drifted past him in confusion.

“Adar? I am right here. Stay with me.”

But Thranduil's head rolled restlessly back against the pillow, the rapid flutter of a pulse clearly visible in his exposed throat. He muttered something unintelligible, adrift again in clouds of delirium.

“So long…” The words almost choked Legolas. “Why could we not speak openly before? And now, I have told you nothing of why I came back to Mirkwood.”

“Has he awoken then?”

It was Mithrildes. Again someone had come up on him unawares. It was as though his natural abilities and warrior’s instincts alike were suspended in a miasma of anxiety.

“Briefly. Now he seems worse than before.”

“That can happen,” she agreed softly. “A rallying before…”

“Before what? What are you telling me?!”

Mithrildes looked with pity on the tortured face turned in her direction. The love between father and son was clear to see, by everyone but themselves.

“Thranduil has a strong will,” she noted. “But the fever has weakened him greatly. We must pray to the Valar.”

The golden head dropped, an unravelling braid sliding forwards across his shoulder. There was nothing she could say to comfort him.

Legolas watched in numb misery as the healer applied fresh paste and poured healing energy into Thranduil until she was pale and shaken herself. It didn't seem to make any visible difference, and in due course she withdrew, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

.

_“We will not abandon you now, no more than we did then.”  Tarthalion was beside him, his blue eyes steady beneath unruly tangles of dark hair. Sometimes he looked decidedly unelvish, and there had been much amused speculation over the years as to the origin of his wild curls._

_Thranduil realised they were not alone. The rocky mountainside was as before, but now his memory had drawn in the valley bottoms and the ragged rabble of exhausted men that were the remains of a Lord’s army. The mortals moved slowly in the distance, wearied by the battles against the mighty serpents that had raged for weeks and drawn them finally to this lair of the Dragon Lord._

_The warriors of Thranduil’s patrol walked again at his side, ghostly shapes moving without sound or substance through the rocky landscape. His eyes feasted on the dimly seen faces, long lost down the river of the years, sorely missed, and once as close to him as brothers. The Dragon Lord saw them too, snorting his fiery scorn at their gossamer bodies, but his flame passed above their heads without effect as their pale eyes watched Thranduil._

_A tall, red-headed elf spoke. “The archers are in position. If we draw the dragon further down the mountain, he will be in range.”_

_“You have my gratitude, Narthandir.”_

_It was a risk, but a necessary one. The mortals were too ragged to take on another serpent and served now only as a temptation to excite the interest of the dragon. It was the elves’ unenviable task to approach closely enough that the Dragon Lord did not feel it necessary to take to wing until he had dispatched them, for if he did fly then all would be lost. Their archers were hidden amongst the boulders, where they could fire into a soft and descaled area of skin above the dragon’s right eye, legacy of a battle lost in the mists of history._

_"We are yours to command, hir-nin." Tarthalion again._

_Thranduil looked at him with grief in his eyes. "It is too great a thing to ask."_

_"The price is already paid. The past cannot be undone."_

_Still Thranduil hesitated. “There is no other way?”_

_“There was never another way.”_

_“Then we must attack.” He shuddered. “And the fire will rain down upon us.” And again they will perish in agony, he added silently. As they did before._

_“It is so.” Tarthalion watched him, steady as an oak tree in his stance._

_Thranduil’s heart thundered with the enormity of it as his thoughts fractured with distress. Was that the choice he had to make? Elves, who had shared his lembas and wine for a thousand, thousand days, who had fought at his side in countless battles, who died on this desolate mountain. Did he have to send them through fire again, the comrades of his heart, or choose not to fight in this fever-fuelled delirium and by not fighting, die, and cause the fading of his son?_

_Deep within that thought was the answer to a question he had been too terrified to ask. Did he have the strength to withstand something he’d barely survived before? He thought not. But to fail was to fail Legolas, and likewise to run from something he feared more than Mordor itself was also to fail Legolas. It seemed then that he must endure._

_It took every ounce of his courage, every iota of self-control to utter the words._

_“So be it.”_

_His head was high and his stance firm as he turned to face his warriors._

_“We have fought together across the length and breadth of Middle Earth. You are without doubt the bravest of elves. You know your fate this day and there will be no blame or disgrace if you wish to leave, for I do not willingly ask any of you to endure this again.”_

_They watched him, unmoving, and he raised his voice._

_“Know this. Whatever you decide today, you will live forever as heroes in my memories, and I will remember you every second of every day for as long as it is fated for me to live.”_

_Narthandir answered for them all. “We are with you, hir-nin. Our fates were decided long ago."_

_Thranduil swallowed and, unable to speak, saluted them with dignity. He turned then to face the Dragon Lord, glad they would not see the pity in his eyes or the way he shook beneath his armour._

_“For Legolas,” he whispered and motioned the patrol forwards, his own fear so acute that he almost stumbled, completely oblivious to the tears running down his face._

_._

Healers came and went and each gave of their healing energy until the glow of their fae was dim. Legolas kept hold of his father’s hand and ignored them. The Elven King was fading before his eyes and the grey tracery of lines slowly returned, drawn with an invisible quill across his left cheek, then later spreading down that side of his throat and chest before disappearing beneath the folds of the tunic.

“What is this affliction?” He asked again, plaintive and hopeless.

“Some scars do not heal, not even for Elven kind."

Mithrildes was attempting to administer athelas tincture in a little Dorwinion, but it flowed back through Thranduil’s slack lips and made a sticky trail to pool in the dip between his collarbones. She dabbed the liquid away with a damp cloth, refusing to meet Legolas’s gaze.

“Your father is a master at hiding that which he does not wish to be observed.”

Is that the reason for the ornate collars and extravagant tunics, thought Legolas, his mind sharpened by misery. Are they merely part of an elaborate façade?

He closed his eyes and cast back in his memory for some confirmation, finding cobwebs and dew and golden foliage as he ran in the rich, leaf scent of autumn when he was small. Thranduil, impossibly tall, was laughing and pretending to chase him through the trees. The memory was crystal clear; his father had been clad in simple browns and greens much as Legolas now wore himself, but even then he was covered from neck to toe.

It was at that moment that Thranduil’s hand quivered in his own and Legolas opened his eyes in time to see fear flickering on his father's face. Again it was smoothed away, although this time the effort was clearly visible. Legolas could not think of a time when the wild force of nature that was his father had ever been afraid, and yet still the expression was uncannily familiar. The inconsistency nagged at him, and became a thread of thought that eventually collided with another, that being the weighty question of how he had displeased his father so much that Thranduil changed from the ada who played hide and seek to the formal and forbidding elf that ruled both Mirkwood and his son with haughty precision.

Those two thoughts took him on a journey back to a warm afternoon outside the gate of the Elven King's Halls. Legolas had been bursting with pride and excitement as he returned home, duly spattered with spider blood and sporting a vicious looking cut across his forehead. That excitement had curdled to nervous apprehension when he saw Thranduil was waiting inside the gate. The King's voice, dangerously calm, had carried clearly to his son.

"I would like an explanation as to how my son, during the course of an afternoon's archery practice almost within sight of the Halls, has managed to find and slay no less than three spiders?" 

There had been no reply. 

"I suspect that there have been some untruths told about his true destination?"

There had been an underlying anger in his father's tone and Legolas, thinking to spare the squirming guard, had rushed into the bars of sunlight before the gate and called out. 

"Adar! I am here. I have come to no harm." 

Thranduil had spun on his heel to face his son, and for an unguarded second that same expression had been naked on his features, immediately replaced by a sardonic smile. 

"Perhaps my son can explain himself?"

Legolas couldn't now recall his stumbling excuses. He did recall only too well the look of disapproval and disappointment on his father's face before he was dismissed with a gesture and Thranduil had swept away.

For Legolas, hurt by the seeming rejection of his first kills, dismissed out of the presence of the King as punishment, it had been the beginning of a resentment that eventually contributed to his departure from Mirkwood. 

Now he finally saw the expression for what it was...fear. But fear on his behalf? From a father who seemed uninterested in him? It didn't make sense. Until he turned it around and asked himself whether Thranduil had been so afraid for his son's safety that he had retreated behind barriers of icy control rather than show such weakness? 

If that was the answer, then a thousand other confusing and hurtful incidents fell into place. Instead of not caring at all, did his father care to the point where he was terrified of some evil befalling his son? It was after all the same father who only days earlier had been so uncharacteristically distracted by his son's perceived peril that he had forgotten thousands of years of combat experience and allowed a lowly goblin to strike a mortal blow.

Legolas dropped his head into his hands, knowing that without doubt every dismissal of his efforts had driven him to be more reckless, until he had gladly risked his own safety to gain that all important seal of parental approval.

Did they really understand each other so little? 

.

_The elves moved forwards in a loose arc, a small enough distance between each shining figure to make them a tempting target for a ground strike, yet far enough apart that they could not be annihilated with one dragon flame._

_The plan and its execution were sound, but fate is a fickle thing, for on that day long ago, re-enacted now in the realm of delirium, there was a hidden piece on the board. Knowledge of the hidden piece in this nightmare replay was of no use, for the moves had to follow those of the original confrontation thousands of years earlier._

_So it was, on Thranduil’s thirty-second step forwards, that there was an explosion of rock and earth to the left of the arc of elves. A serpent with scales of iridescent green burst from concealment, her maternal instincts for the Dragon Lord unleashed with merciless fury in the form of a mighty gout of flame that scorched and cracked the rocks themselves._

_**The elves nearest to her died without even knowing they had done so, bright puffs of flame amidst a fire that left their weapons in melted streaks upon the boulders._

_Without missing a beat, the archers fired and their arrows flew without fault, every one of them hitting their target. The Dragon Lord died, but he did not die easily. His mighty body threw itself across the mountainside in death spasms that unleashed an uncontrolled rain of fire upon his mother and the remaining elves alike._

_A sea of fire raced towards Thranduil; its waves consuming his warriors one by one and at terrifying speed._

_**Narthandir whirled before him in a hideous dance of death, his red hair now brilliant with flame and his mouth open and surprised. Then the voracious fingers were upon him. Lost in the insanity of incandescent agony, Thranduil screamed, the sound lost to his ears but echoing in his actions for centuries._

_Later, much later, he learned that Tarthalion was the only elf unscathed physically that day. The death throes of the green dragon swept him from his feet and into the scant shelter of a small overhang of rock. As he fell, some instinct caused him to throw out a hand and grasp hold of Thranduil’s arm, so that the future Elven King, already wrapped in flame, fell with him._

**_._ **


	7. Chapter 7

_Thranduil fell, his being wreathed in flame, burning air in his mouth when he tried to draw breath, his fae writhing in the trees’ tormented memories of great forest fires._

To Legolas, accustomed to the helpless observation of weak, feverish shivering, the eruption of the Elven King into violent motion was a vicious shock. Only his superior reactions enabled him to catch hold of his father as Thranduil transitioned within a heartbeat from prostrate inaction to frantic motion. The urgency of his movements as he twisted and rolled suggested he was attempting to escape some terrible predator known only to himself.

Legolas caught a brief glimpse of wide eyes, filled with terror, and then found himself on the floor, limbs tangled with those of his parent and his senses swamped with the primal scream of a creature in mortal agony.

Attuned as the Elven King was to the forest and its inhabitants, that single cry sent a shock wave through Mirkwood. Flailing boughs caused a storm of green leaves to be thrown away in a premature autumn, and horrified elves fell to their knees, hands pressed over their ears in distress.

Inside the shelter, Legolas found himself engaged in a battle to restrain his father, who seemed to have temporarily over-ridden his weakness and was now possessed of an unearthly strength born out of sheer desperation. The violence of his silent struggle ripped asunder the wound in his chest, releasing a flood of elven blood tainted with a dark and noxious pus.

Mithrildes, fearful of further damage, added her smaller form to the struggle in an attempt to immobilise the King's shoulders, but was cast aside as though she weighed no more than a tiny sparrow. She rolled and came up onto her knees, hands rising to her mouth like a startled elfling as Legolas in turn was thrown bodily across the shelter in an arc of red droplets and blond braids. He hurled himself immediately back into the fray, uncaring of blood streaming from his own nose, as grey scars began to reappear on the Elven King's face. To the horror of the younger elf, the scar tissue rapidly became red and livid, and then tore apart as though some unseen force was devouring the flesh, laying muscle and teeth bare for all to see.

"Adar!"

Legolas's grip on the sweat slick skin of Thranduil’s arms slipped, and it was timely that Tarthalion chose that moment to burst in. With no consideration of the possible consequences of laying hands upon the King, the warrior threw himself across Thranduil’s torso and pinned him bodily to the floor.

"Lie across his legs, Hir-nin!"

Legolas obeyed, their combined body weight finally restricting the movement of the Elven King, who nonetheless continued to writhe in silence as the flesh melted away on the left side of his neck and chest, the gaping wounds soon consuming the re-opened knife puncture and the inflamed area around it.

"Thranduil! Breathe! This is NOT real!"

Aware that Tarthalion had just thrown protocol to the winds and addressed his father by his given name, but far more concerned by the words themselves, Legolas twisted his head and realised that Thranduil’s lips were turning blue.

"What ails him?" The only response to his fervent plea was a pervading stench of burnt hair and flesh and the slow marbling of his father's eye.

"Damn you, Thranduil!  BREATHE!"

Tarthalion's voice cracked with stress, his fingers now twisted brutally into the hair on either side of the Elven King's face as he shook him in an attempt to break through into the realms of nightmare. He was rewarded by a shuddering gasp for air and released his grip, smoothing down the dishevelled strands as he continued in a soothing tone.

"This is not real, Thranduil Opherion. You must breathe. The flames are long gone."

"Flames?" Legolas shifted his position awkwardly, taking hold of Tarthalion's arm with an unintentionally vicious grip. "I would know why he dreams of fire?"

The warrior spared him a brief and compassionate glance. "Wounds caused by dragon fire do not ever heal completely." He cupped the King's face in an unexpectedly tender manner, tears bright in his eyes with the memory of it. "He was so young, so hurt; I did not think he would live long enough to see his father again."

"Dragon fire," repeated Legolas quietly, struggling to reconcile the conflicting image of a young and vulnerable Thranduil with that of the haughty and powerful Elven King. "My father fought dragons? He did not speak of it."

"The King forbids any to speak of that day."

"And yet it seems that you know much of the circumstances?"

"I was there." The admission was filled with grief. "I saw them all die. Your father was grievously injured. He still blames himself for the horror of that day."

Beneath them the Elven King's limbs moved in a final weak palsy and then stilled. Legolas rolled clear, only then becoming aware that they were surrounded by healers, their hands splayed on any available skin, and the golden glow of their healing energies visibly knitting together damaged flesh and muscle. Finally the Elven King caught another small gasp of air and focussed on the faces above him, his marbled eye clearing and regaining its familiar icy blue hue as he met and held Legolas's gaze.

"Ion-nin," he said weakly.

The feather light touch of his fae trembled, threatening to fall away like the softest of snowflakes. The sensation took away all sense of reality for his son, who found himself on his knees, hunched protectively over his father, trapped inside a pocket of icy silence that could not be broken by the moving lips of the concerned faces around him.

Eventually Tarthalion caught him by the shoulder and gave him a little shake.

"...onto the bed..."

Legolas nodded, dropping back on his haunches to allow the healers to lift the Elven King from the floor.

"There is nothing more they can do." Tarthalion's voice was a soft murmur in his ear. "The infection has been burned out, the wounds heal, but the King..." The warrior's hand steadied him as he rose to his feet. "Speak to him, Hir-nin. You are the only reason he has lived these past days."

Legolas looked at them all, grief rising in him like a burning and bitter tide. What had to be said was for his father's ears only.

"Leave us."

No-one moved and Legolas dragged in a harsh breath, his tone deepening.

"Get out."

He had never sounded more like the Elven King and something in Thranduil’s expression told him he approved, was perhaps even a little amused. The shelter emptied rapidly and the door curtain fell into place behind the last elf. Legolas saw with relief that Tarthalion had taken up station outside the shelter. Their privacy would be assured.

He settled on the low seat beside the bed with care; the violent struggle having done much to unsettle his damaged ribs. The healing process, already slow to start, had most likely been put back by some weeks.

His father’s piercing gaze tracked his every move as he reached out with an unsteady hand to push away a stray strand of hair and tug the cover straight, trying to organise his chaotic thoughts into some semblance of order. When he spoke it was with care.

"It seems we have misunderstood each other in many ways."

"There is much I should have said to my son." Thranduil’s voice was weak and he swallowed, raising shaking fingers to massage his throat. “I wished to spare you from pain, yet it seems I have caused more by my silence.”

“I wish I could have been a better son, one who could be trusted to know of your pain.”

Long fingers caught at Legolas’s sleeve in protest. “I could not have asked for anything more in my son. I did not wish to burden you with my sorrow.” The King’s eyes closed for a moment, lashes casting shadows on his gaunt cheeks. “I have lived for thousands of years, and yet some things have a powerful grasp.”

His son’s chin came up. “I would know of those things now.”

“You have your mother’s strength,” said Thranduil gently. “Often you remind me of her.”

“I believe that is perhaps why you do not wish us to be…as father and son should be.” Emotion shone bright in the younger elf’s blue eyes. “I came of age many years ago. I have learned everything you asked, fought at the head of your warriors, yet still you do not trust me enough to talk to me.”

“I would trust you with my life, ion-nin. Perhaps I do not trust myself.” It was clear from Legolas’s face that the statement needed further explanation. Thranduil rallied his failing reserves and firmed his jaw in unconscious imitation of his son. “I am a King. If I am seen to falter then all beneath falters with me. Perhaps I feared that if I allowed my son to see what lies within my heart, then all would be able to see my weakness?”

“It is not weakness to be afraid or to have sorrow,” said Legolas with animation. “You are not weak! You are the most powerful being I know.”

Thranduil smiled thinly at him. “Then my guise must be very strong indeed.” He waved a hand at Legolas’s flinty expression. “No ion-nin, I do not mock. I fear you would not respect me as a King or a father if you knew the extent of my shortcomings.”

His son stared at him in disbelief. “Do you think I do not know of the depth of your grief at the loss of my mother?” He ran a hand distractedly across his ribs, wincing a little. “Do you think I have not noticed the darkness in your face when you look to the south, to Mordor?”

Thranduil watched him, eyes wide in his pale face.

“Do you think, adar, that I did not notice the swiftness with which you removed the orc’s head from his shoulders when he spoke of the rising evil? You have hidden much from me, but not everything.”

The Elven King sighed. “And yet it seems I have been successful in hiding my love for my son.”

Legolas’s mouth opened, then shut again, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he fought for control. When he spoke, the words were choked. “In that you have been most successful. Yet it was not always so. When I was a small elfling…” He seemed unable to continue, letting his head drop so that his face fell into shadow.

“Those were good days, were they not?” The King’s expression softened, mouth and eyes smiling in a way Legolas had not seen for centuries. “My Greenleaf.”

“Then what happened? How did I come to displease you so much?”

“You do not displease me.” Thranduil’s voice was quiet. “When you were reckless…”

“If I was reckless, Lord King, it was in an attempt to gain your attention, your approval.”

The statement lay between them, the root of much anguish.

“I feared for your safety. Then and now. I have withheld approval when it should have been given, lest you be inspired to deeds of even greater daring. I did not wish you to be hurt, not in any way. I thought by keeping you at arm’s length you would not care for me, and would be spared the hurt I felt when Oropher was slain, when your mother passed. Now I see how my actions have caused you much grief.”

“You think I do not care for you? In truth sometimes I have wondered if I should. Yet it seems I do care, nonetheless. When I saw you had fallen on the battlefield…" The pain was raw." I thought I had lost you.”

Something burned within the Elven King’s eyes, fierce, primal. “You should know, since the first day I held you, losing you has been my greatest fear.” He kept eye contact for a few intent seconds then sank back into the pillow with a shaky sigh.

“Adar, you should rest.” Contrite, Legolas ran a palm over his father’s forehead, alarmed at the light sheen of sweat and the cold, clammy feel of his skin.

“I do not feel at my best,” Thranduil admitted in a thready voice. “I believe the Valar are close by.”

His son took his hand, holding on with determination.

“They cannot have you. Not yet.”

~**~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter soon. Love to hear what you think. Thank you so much for reading, and warm thanks to those who left kudos.


	8. Final chapter

 

The song of the Valar was soft and melodic; it wove through the trees of Mirkwood and reached the ears of the Elven King.

“You are Sindar." The song wrapped about him like a comfortable cloak. “You belong with us.”

It would be so easy, so very easy, to go with them.

You belong here, insisted the grip of his son’s fingers, tight around his own.

Thranduil’s fae fluttered, seeming to lift a little from its customary seat within his physical form. He sensed it clearly; an injured, grey, exhausted part of himself. It would be the easiest of things to let go and drift away with it.

“I have had a long life." The ancient Oak broke into his thoughts, a hint of censure in its message. “Yet you were a King long before I was an acorn. The forest is under your care and harsh times are upon us. You are immortal. You are the Elven King. It is your duty to endure.

Thranduil’s eyes sought his son. Legolas sat beside him, head bowed, the green and gold of his fae surrounding him with the haze of sunlight through green summer leaves. His fae had not been so easily visible since he was an elfling, and the natural joy and vigour of the mature elf was easy to see, although Thranduil noted a certain transparency, an appalling frailty, caused no doubt by the current situation. It pained him to think he had affected his son so deeply.

“Legolas needs you to live,” said the Hazel, its voice warm in his thoughts. “Your elves need you. And we need you.”

They were the most persuasive arguments anyone could have presented, but the remaining life within the charred wilderness of the Elven King's own fae was withering, turning brown and dry as it fell into a choking carpet of ash. It was with a sense of immense regret that Thranduil watched his son disappear from view beneath the dark curtain of his eyelids. For a moment he felt Legolas’s fingers, burning hot against the cold ice of his skin, and then there was only the rapid and shallow fluttering of his own pulse.

Legolas felt him let go. There was a subtle change in the tension of the hand held in his own, his father’s body sinking a little deeper into the covers. The remainder of Legolas's shored up façade of brave defiance cracked into a thousand pieces, tears spilling unnoticed down his cheeks as he bent in silent grief over his father

.

Outside the shelter, Tarthalion waited, his stance formal and forbidding, fully aware it may be the last duty he would perform for the elf he had served for thousands of years. It grieved him greatly to admit that there was nothing further he could do for Thranduil, although there was some comfort in the knowledge that the only one who could help the King was already at his side.

There was an unnatural silence throughout the encampment. All had witnessed the rapid departure of the healers and the sense of despair surrounding them. Many elves glanced in Tarthalion's direction, desiring to enquire after their King, but none dared to approach the warrior's grim visage.

From his position next to the shelter doorway, Tarthalion's keen ears easily overheard the conversation between the Elven King and his son. It seemed that at last they had spoken openly. Even so, he feared greatly for Legolas. It was not unusual for an elf, faced with the death of a loved one, to become so grief-stricken that they faded themselves. His own long existence had brought him into contact with many beings affected by such grief. It seemed to him that both mortal and immortal suffered greatly. Mortals, aware that they had only a brief existence, seemed to love easily and often with whole-hearted enthusiasm, choosing to forget that loss was inevitable. Although they expected death, they were devastated by its premature arrival, the impact often affecting a large portion of their short lives. In comparison, immortal elves had an expectation that life should last forever and the loss of someone was naturally a grievous shock. The closer bond between their souls and physical bodies often led to the consuming despair known as fading. Many elves sailed west or simply died themselves.

The healers had expressed grave concerns that Legolas may fade if the King died, yet Tarthalion believed that the younger elf would endure, kept alive by his strong sense of honour and duty to the elves and realm of Mirkwood. The warrior held close the knowledge that Legolas was very much his father's son, and Thranduil had survived loss against all odds. The young elf also had much of his mother about him, and although she had appeared a delicate flower, she had been for many years a bloom that could survive the hardest of frosts, her strength evident on those rare occasions when her husband had retreated into his shell and could offer her nothing but an icy exterior.

The question was, in what state would Legolas endure? Already there was a visible dimming of his fae, a lack of lustre in the normal brilliance of his blue eyes. Would he become a grey and withered version of the Greenleaf they all knew and loved? Would he too become an isolated and sorrowful King, hiding behind a veil of his own making, fated to follow in the tragic footsteps of his father? The death of Oropher proved how easily a powerful being could be wrenched from life, whilst Thranduil had been living proof of the consequences of endurance with a broken heart

They were questions that brought a heavy feeling into the ancient elf’s chest, one that turned to lead when he heard the muffled but unmistakeable sound of the grief of the Elven King's son.

.

Legolas bowed his head, a silent howl erupting from his fae and lungs alike. The pain was immeasurable, jagged and sharp with the knowledge that the intelligent, intense, frustrating, complex, fascinating, infuriating and wounded being that was his father was about to pass from Middle Earth.

Images, some long forgotten, slammed into his mind: Thranduil looking down his nose in haughty disdain as he cast aside his cloak in disgust; Thranduil bathed in golden candlelight, toasting him with finest Dorwinion with a raised eyebrow and a humorous look in his eye after some misdemeanour of the younger elf; the King lounging upon his throne in bored repose; the King arrogant and splendid in ornate armour as he slaughtered spiders with graceful precision; Ada clad in simple green with love in his eyes and a huge smile as he went down on one knee and held out his arms to his son.

It was overwhelming. Legolas's hands settled on either side of his father's face, his fingers shaking and trembling as though he suffered from some terrible fever.

"I'm sorry, ada. I didn't tell you." He dropped his forehead onto Thranduil’s chest, one hand still caught in the pale strands of his father's hair, the other gripping onto the remains of the tunic lying over his hip bone. "I love you. I do love you. Even when I thought you didn't love me. I always loved you." His shoulders shook as he was overcome by silent and wrenching spasms of grief.

.

In the inky darkness where he floated, Thranduil heard the words. Or perhaps he saw them, for it seemed to him they were brilliant runes emblazoned across the darkness.

His fae was the cold, grey ash and blackened branches that remain after the fiercest of forest fires. All life, diseased and verdant green alike, was gone. Yet, as in those seemingly dead landscapes, the fall of simple drops of moisture work a wonderful magic. So it was that the tears of his son, flowing unchecked upon the skin of Thranduil’s chest and neck, fell into the ash that formed the base of his soul. And there, like raindrops, they awakened life. Tiny seeds, waiting for just such an event, sent out small shoots, and these in turn grew tendrils and stems. Gradually the forest began to sprout, green reaching up towards the sun, where before there had been only choking clouds of smoke.

Unsure, Thranduil faltered, but the love of his son had the vibrant strength of a young tree in springtime. It drew him up out of darkness as though he was the sap rising from roots to trunk to branches. There, feeling the warmth of the sun, the leaves unfurled and with no small amount of effort, Thranduil’s eyes opened.

He blinked, deeply surprised to ever see the light of Middle Earth again. The all-encompassing pain in his chest seemed to have gone and he relished that lack for a moment before he was distracted by the feeling of something small that ran quickly across his sternum and down over his ribs. Another followed, then another, and he raised his hand to find moisture and above that soft hair that he knew immediately was not his own. He tilted his head slightly and saw that his son’s head lay upon him, his hair a tousled mess of unravelling braids.

“Legolas?”

His son jerked, raising startled and bloodshot eyes that regarded his father for a couple of heartbeats before he dropped his face again, his fingers digging almost cruelly into Thranduil’s hip while his shoulders heaved with sobs.

The Elven King struggled to move, pushing against his own weakness and the warm weight against his torso.

“Legolas! Are you hurt, ion-nin?”

Even as he asked the question, Thranduil recalled the words emblazoned in the darkness, heard the cry of grief uttered by his son that went unheard in the physical world, and realised Legolas had thought him dead. He raised his arm and caught hold of his son, pulling him in tight.

“What did I do? I have caused you to suffer great pain.”

“I caused this.” The younger elf’s breath was hot on the skin over his ribs.

“You did not.” Exhausted as he was, Thranduil could still inject a fair amount of force into his words. “This is my doing. It is my weakness and fear that brings us here.”

Legolas raised his head again, his face a study in disbelief. “How can you be weak, ada? You have faced the foulness of Sauron, the terror of dragon fire!”

Thranduil cupped his son’s jaw with firm but tender fingers, looking him directly in the eyes. “I was so afraid to lose you, I drove you away.” He gave him a little shake. “Mordor…” A deep breath. “Dragons. They are nothing compared to the fear of losing you.”

Legolas stared at him, a myriad of expressions chasing across his features, finally settling on heart-felt relief.

Releasing his grip, Thranduil gently pushed aside some damp hair from his son’s cheek and stroked his golden head with a soothing touch, one he had not used since Legolas was an elfling. His words were very firm, very clear. “I do love you, ion-nin. More than immortal life itself.”

Legolas sighed, tension dropping away as his eyes warmed to a brighter blue than the Elven King had seen in some time. “I thought I had lost you.”

“I am here. My intention is always to be here.” Thranduil smiled at him gently, considering the grey lines of stress and weariness on his child’s face. “You are exhausted.”

Legolas gave a tearful laugh. “More than I can say.”

“The bed is wide.” Thranduil noted the war of hesitancy and want in his son’s eyes. “It would comfort me, to know you are resting here.”

With a firm nod, Legolas shifted gracefully onto the bed beside him, the warmth of his back tight against Thranduil’s side. Within moments his breathing slipped into the easy rhythm of sleep. After a time the Elven King rolled carefully onto his side and draped his arm over his son, breathing in the scent of him, so familiar, bringing so many memories of his precious little elfling snuggled against him. He thought the moment may be a gift from the Valar, and something that would most likely never happen again.

“It is my intention always to stay here,” he repeated softly. “Although I fear your destiny may require you to do otherwise.”

“I believe we always knew that.” Tarthalion’s voice was beside them, soft with understanding.

Thranduil murmured his assent, too tired to turn his head to the warrior, determination in his drowsy voice. “When that day comes, I will endure.”

Unseen, Tarthalion bowed deeply in respect. “I know you will, my King.”

The door flap dropped behind him as he took his leave.

.

It was by chance that he did not meet Mithrildes, who returned fearing the worst. She entered cautiously and almost cried out, momentarily thinking father and son both dead, stretched out as they were, their hair a curtain of pale gold as it flowed over the end of the bed platform. She approached on silent feet with a trembling heart that leaped in relief when she saw there was the curve of a smile on the perfect features of the Elven King and that his arm wrapped protectively around his son as they slept.

.

**Epilogue.**

Thranduil stood, forcing himself not to sway, his expression uncharacteristically unsure.

“You look like a King.” Legolas reassured him.

His father’s eyes glinted with amusement. “That is well, as I am one.”

“They await you.” Legolas gestured to the doorway. “They are eager to see you are well.” He paused, watching in consternation as his father turned to the oak tree beside the bed and reached out to it. “Are you well enough?”

“I am well enough.” Thranduil dropped his forehead against the bark of the tree, his lips moving soundlessly in thanks and causing a shiver of pleasure to run through the ancient trunk. He looked up again with a small smile. “I may, however, require some assistance.”

Legolas stepped forwards swiftly, taking his father’s arm, thinking to help him to the doorway. To his surprise Thranduil did not release him, instead drawing him out into the clearing and allowing some of his weight to settle visibly onto his son in full view of the elves awaiting them.

“May we assist you, Lord King?” Mithrildes regarded him with anxiety.

“My son will assist me,” said Thranduil clearly. He stepped forwards carefully and a hearty cheer rang in the gentle evening. A ripple of song started and swelled, sweet and soulful as the King and his son walked slowly through the crowd.

Legolas leaned in, his lips close to his father’s ear. “You allow this?”

Thranduil raised an elegant eyebrow. “I allow you to assist me?” He smiled, reaching across to pat his son’s hand where it supported him. “I would allow none other.”

A warm feeling stole into Legolas’s chest. He felt as though at last his feet were securely upon the ground. It was a good feeling, which was odd for someone who loved to run so freely amongst the branches.

**_The End._ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, so much, for reading.  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated and definitely keep me writing ;-) I'd really like to know what you think about this angsty little story. 
> 
> Thranduil and Legolas do not belong to me. Playing with the characters is entirely without financial gain and is for amusement and by way of tribute to one of the greatest stories ever written and some of the most epic films made in recent history.


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